Which meant today’s purchases had been all about the main dish, and she’d let her imagination run wild.
Eventually, she’d settled on serving duck confit, and had purchased two birds, which would be more than enough for the number of diners attending tonight.
When done properly—which she most assuredly would do—the finished duck would be incredibly rich and tender, with a melt-in-your-mouth texture you could only get after cooking the birds for hours in their own juices.
Accompanying that centerpiece, she would giddily serve individual foie gras p?té en croûte; duck liver pastries. They would present beautifully, and surprise the palate of anyone who previously hadn’t thought to revere duck liver.
Bobbie had decided not to do much with the green beans she’d brought besides blanch them and roll them into spirals for a pop of artistic color, but the yams would be a huge hit. They were going to be boiled, whipped with heavy cream and a few other secret ingredients, then baked into a dinner souffle which would be finished with a layer of crunchy pecans.
She was sure it would be striking on the palate.
For dessert, she’d already been imagining a finished product. She pictured a towering confection of decadence; every part of it homemade. She’d layer a rich, coffee sponge with mascarpone cream, frost it with a dark latte glaze, then top it with homemade hazelnut espresso truffles. The entirety of the dessert would be dusted with unsweetened cocoa powder and edible gold flakes, which would make the lush taupe and brown colors pop, not to mention exploding onto the tongue with a mélange of exquisite flavors.
Bobbie chuckled to herself. The only “normal” thing being served was the fresh fruit and cheese charcuterie board that Monsieur Provard always insisted upon. Was everything else on the menu over-the-top?
Of course. But that’s why he kept paying her the big bucks to come up once a week.
About that, though…
Bobbie still felt guilty at the money she received each week, thinking that her brothers had coerced the man into hiring her. She was good, but was she once a week, mid-four figures good? After all, she’d be spending her two days off sailing, regardless, so getting paid to be on the water was…extravagant.
In that regard, Bobbie had, last time she’d been here, initiated a few conversations with Monsieur Provard about the size of her paycheck, trying to be as honest as possible with the man.
She’d argued that for what he was paying her, he could easily find a local chef to cook for himsixnights a week, but the man had remained adamant. He’d said he not only adored and craved her cooking, giving her side-eyes that made her extremely uncomfortable, but that he was equally appreciative of the magnificent homebrew she brought up from her brothers each week. Had he looked…smug?
She wasn’t so sure about the beer being a huge plus.
She’d tried her siblings’ brew once or twice at home, and thought it…mediocre at best, but who was she to judge? Maybe itwassomething special, and her palate—more used to critiquing foods—simply wasn’t able to pick up the nuances that made it special.
Each to their own.
Monsieur Provard had continued to assure her with a smarmy smile, that he didn’t want to change a thing.
His demeanor had been…oilier than usual, and Bobbie tried to ignore that. But when he’d reached across his desk and thumbed the back of her hand in a possessive kind of caress, alarm bells had gone off in her head and she’d snatched it back to her lap.
Gross.
Bobbie had then judiciously stood up, and taking her leave, she stopped trying to change the man’s mind. She liked the fact that he enjoyed her cooking, but…touching her like that? Creep city.
She hoped he wasn’t going to try anything remotely similar this time around.
Walking into the kitchen with her purchases, Bobbie noted that Allain, per usual, was right behind her, ready to assist. Bobbie donned her apron and with the willing man at her side, they began a long day of prep.
Bobbie had to admit, as the afternoon hours ticked by and the vast, industrially-equipped kitchen began to smell like heaven from all the steaming, baking, and cooking, that this was truly how she loved to cook. Catering was okay, but in most cases, foods for those functions had to be produced in such large quantities, that nothing couldreallybe considered gourmet.
Not that she didn’t try anyway. Her food was always deemed top-notch, and her clients were invariably pleased, but there were a finite number of things that could be successfully served en-masse, and she was always scrambling for new recipes to fit a big crowd.
When cooking for a small, intimate group, like on Tuesday nights, Bobbie could let her imagination run wild and create from the heart, which was so much more challenging.
Tonight’s meal—she looked around as she put the finishing touches on the truffles she was dipping—would be memorable; one of the best she’d made in the months she’d been working this gig.
Which was saying a lot considering the various incarnations of beef roasts she’d served, the spitted and roasted pig she’d done up, luau style, and the huge, plank-cooked salmon she’d procured right off a fishing boat last week.
Expensive as hell, but she’d been told not to stint.
Which is another reason she really appreciated this job. Monsieur Provard wasn’t afraid to spend money on heroron the ingredients she needed.
And as long as he kept his distance…
